


Faith and Ravens

by spacetango



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And People Who Apologize A Lot, Character Study, Don't You Swing Your Metaphor at Me, F/M, Fuck Solas, It Equals Angst, Lavellan Needs a Hug, Solavellan, Srsly the Angst, Sweet Delicious Angst, UGLY SOBBING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetango/pseuds/spacetango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post game, so... spoilers. Lavellan finds an unexpected shoulder to cry on, and it works out unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith and Ravens

“Cole, stop.” Lavellan doesn’t care for their startled looks, the pity she believes she catches in hesitant smiles and heads too quickly turned. An addendum, too uncertain for her liking, but it’s all she can offer: “I’m sorry. I need air.”

Behind her she can hear Varric hold Cole back— _let her go, kid_ —and the crisp snap of Josephine’s card shuffling. Wicked Grace: not the distraction she thought it would be. Not when her thoughts turn to Solas the way Leliana’s ravens always find their way back.

_Back where? Say it: back home._

It’s a wonder Cole only skimmed the surface. This time.

She picks her way to the garden, her path as roundabout as she can make it. The last thing she wants is a well meaning friend and words of consolation. It’s not that simple. If ever it was. She chooses a spot between sculptural blooms of crystal grace, nearly opalescent in the clear moonlight, draws her knees up to her chin, ready to brood, or maybe have a good cry, because brooding and crying are easier than untangling the questions left in his wake. Tears are easy. Sadness is easy. Still, there's no easing into that. Too much hurt, too much anger, and those questions pecking at her on all sides. In the distance, an open window and a thin melodic thread as delicate and heady as the scent of prophet’s laurel.

_—and the path is dark_  
_look to the sky_  
_for one day soon—_

“The dawn will come.” Easier to pick up the song. Part of her began there. “The shepherd’s lost—”

_—and his home is far_  
_keep to the stars—_

“The dawn will come.”

“Inquisitor?”

She jumps up, narrowly missing collision with the heavy stone pot to her side. “Cassandra! What are you—”

“I’m sorry, I thought—”

They both stop before they trample each other sentences further, but they both hold their ground. Their habit of playing tug-o-war with anything at hand holds them to the spot. It’s only when the song dies down that Cassandra says, “Apologies, Inquisitor.”

“It’s fine.” She’s had time to regain lost composure. She even feels the pull of a half-baked joke: _how Divine meeting you here_. “If anyone is going to catch me singing Andrastean hymns—” An open-ended gesture, implying much, saying nothing. She learned from the very best.

_Where do the ravens go? Home._

“I had no idea you knew the words.”

“Because I’m Dalish?”

“Because you’re you.” Precise diction and that direct stare. It’s unlikely Cassandra will ever let go of how Lavellan fought all arguments for the Maker, for Andraste, for a divine plan. When, in fact, something like divine reasoning set at least part of it in motion. Laughter would be inappropriately appropriate right now.

_Ravens. Ravens returning._

“Fair point.” Lavellan picks at an elfroot leaf. “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

“That makes two of us. I believed the hour late enough, but—” Cassandra, at last, relents. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

“Wait.” It’s selfish, she knows, to cling, to intrude on Cassandra’s search for quiet, but she’s past such considerations. “Wait, please.”

“Inquisitor?”

She crushes the elfroot leaf. “I just— I— How do you do it?”

“Do what, Inquisitor?”

Words pour out faster than any breathless and confusing thing Cole’s ever sad. “I look at you, and you are the most faithful person I know. I mean, yes, Leliana has faith, but she’s like flame fighting fickle breezes.” Gestures help her gather momentum, wrench words out of her, past teeth that threaten to clamp down shut. “But you—you burn. And it’s bright, and warm, and steady. No matter what, you don’t waver. How do you not waver?”

The clarity of Cassandra’s surprise etches itself across her face. “I don’t suppose this is a test of my ability as future Divine?” Diction as clipped as ever, but voice gone soft. “I’m sorry if I sound uncaring. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“If I may, Inquisitor, does this have anything to do with—”

She’s prepared for what comes next: _Solas left, the two of you were close, I’m sorry._ Pity words, without meaning. But that is not what Cassandra says.

Cassandra says, “—with your vallaslin being gone?”

She doesn’t care that she’s staring. Had Cassandra used the ever popular “your markings,” it would have been easy to remain self-contained, to deflect. As it is, her eyes sting with sudden tears, her shoulders shake. She wants to say she gifted him her bare face only because one gives of oneself to one’s beloved; she wants to say that she believed him when he said all would be made clear; she wants to say that she saw the signs, like a trail of crumbs leading into the deep, dark forest of his secrets, and followed it there with an open heart. She’s all but certain he is Fen’Harel. She walked with the Wolf— _did so much_ more _than walk, be honest_ —and he was not the kind of monster— _not_ that _kind, no_ —she’s been told he was. Her people got so much wrong that she has trouble finding faith in anything.

Instead of saying all that: she wipes snot off her face with a balled up fist.

“Llyrae, Inquisior Lavellan, I am so sorry. Here.” Cassandra presses a bit of cloth into her hand, pulls her into an unexpected embrace, holds her as she spends tears.

The wind picks up just enough to carry the clear scent of laurel over the swirling musk of crystal grace. Amazing she can still smell anything. She pulls back from Cassandra. “That was messy,” she says stupidly. Her voice is raw, her sinuses ache. A month ago, she’d have apologized, but then, a month ago, she had no cause for giving in to decadent ugly sobs. Not even her shame is left. But what of her pride?

_Ravens roosting._

Cassandra says, “Forgive me, it was obvious it wasn’t merely a broken heart. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m glad you did.” And almost adds, _because that’s all everyone thinks it is_. “But you are right,” she says weighing her words with care, aware she’s still on the brink of spilling a secret not hers to tell, “heartbreak alone would have been kinder.” Then, quickly: “I never asked you how you managed to weather the Seeker tome revelations.”

Cassandra considers. “Weather might be your answer, Inquisitor. A tree with broken branches still remains a tree.” The mask of formality is back in place, but her tone is thoughtful. Moonlight turns the planes of Cassandra’s face into exact angles, as inscrutable as anything found among the nobles of Orlais. “I won’t presume to give you advice, but may I suggest you look within for answers. Your sense of purpose, the way you became this cause in spite of your misgivings—that is what carried us all. You have strength beyond measure, and I don’t know that anyone but you can offer the solace that you seek.” Then, as if annoyed with her word choice, a noise halfway between disgust and impatience: “What I meant to say is, you are still you, no matter the storm.”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“I do.” Cassandra’s tone leaves no room for debate.

Lavellan is not surprised by the other woman’s conviction. Cassandra is nothing if not a believer. As for herself, it might be time to let go of the expectation that she'll be pitied. She twists the bit of cloth in her hand, noting the contrast between the strong, supple cotton and the stylized flourish of discreet embroidery along its edge. “I’ll have to wash your handkerchief,” she says. “You’ll be an excellent Divine, you know.”

A pause, the span of one breath and no longer. “You believe this?”

“I do.”

Cassandra nods slowly. “Perhaps it was meant for our paths to cross this evening. Solitude can't possibly answer every crisis of faith.” Then, with the slightest of chuckles: “That sounded like something a Divine might say, did it not?”

“The Divine did say it.”

“True.” But there is warmth in her voice.

They say good night across a coltish sprig of prophet’s laurel as if their encounter was commonplace. For the first time in weeks, she feels the fog lifting. Solas’s secrets may have thrown her world in doubt, but would she rather cling to beliefs composed of ignorance and lies?

_Ravens that shift and watch with secret obsidian eyes._

There are truths to be found, and no matter what they might turn out to be, Cassandra is right: Llyrae Lavellan has remained, against odds, herself. Battered, bruised, and perhaps uncertain—but herself. That is her starting point. For answers. For a way to reckon with the Wolf, to chase after him back into that dark and secret forest, where she may, if she can manage forgiveness, even find a way to reclaim what she knows—without doubt—to be hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Non (head)canonical take on post game events. I mostly just wanted to stick these two characters together and see how they'd interact.


End file.
